


Vitae Benefaria

by SableR



Series: Starling's Flight [9]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Action/Adventure, Canon Compliant, Canon Disabled Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Epilogue, Eventual Fluff, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Kidnapping, M/M, Minor Lavellan/Solas, Post-Canon, Rescue, Trespasser DLC spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-21
Updated: 2016-01-07
Packaged: 2018-05-08 01:56:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5479001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SableR/pseuds/SableR
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"On one occasion, Venatori forces ambushed Dorian, who likely would have died... had not an unnamed mercenary band led by a Tal-Vashoth warrior crossed Tevinter's border and mounted a dangerous rescue operation."</p><p>This is the tale of that dangerous rescue operation: it begins with a cry for help in the dark, and a friend's life on the line.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Clariel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic starts with my Inquisitor, but will primarily center around Bull and the Chargers, with each chapter from a different character's POV. Because let's face it; Lavellan would definitely help rescue her best friend :)

_Thick red smoke shrouds the dream, filling her eyes and lungs.  But she recognizes the smell of death, and the eerie song like metal scraping along her teeth.  This is supposed to be Therinfal Redoubt.  The last echoes of Envy’s nightmare._

_The moment she thinks that, she can see him through the haze.  A great white wolf, eyes fixed on her, body tensed for flight._

_She fights the smile that tugs at her lips.  She knows he’ll vanish if she tries to approach.  Instead, she waits and watches, both of them still as statues._

_But it isn’t Solas who shatters the silence.  Someone else’s voice tears through the dream--an intruder, yet strangely familiar._

**“--river--ambush--bloody Maker, I hope you’re hearing this!”**

_She looks around wildly.  At the smoke, at the wolf, but he seems as startled as she._

**“Fasta vass!”**

_With a gasp of realization, she dashes through the smoke, leaving the astonished wolf behind as she wrenches herself into the waking world_.

* * *

“Dorian!”

Clariel jolted out of her bedroll.  Utter darkness pressed in around her, save the purple glow of the sending crystal around her neck.  What in blazes was Dorian doing, waking her up at this hour?

“Dorian?”

The magical light flickered in and out, in time with what sounded like footsteps.  She stared at it, stunned, then looked down at her left side.  Half of her sleeve flopped uselessly when she lifted it.  This was no dream; she always had the use of both arms in her dreams.

“You ass,” she whispered into the crystal.  “If this is your idea of a prank--”

Even as she said the words, she knew it couldn’t be.  The sending crystals were their lifelines, their mutual link to sanity.  She never contacted him without need, and he’d shown the same courtesy.  The purple light flared again.  This time, she heard voices on the other side.  Voices speaking in Tevene...but not Dorian’s.

She picked out three individuals, a man and two women.  Their whispers mingled in a low, tense hiss.  She heard the distinct crackle of lightning from a staff, followed by a heavy thump and clatter that sounded horribly like a person hitting the ground.

Clariel froze, unable to move or even breathe.  Wild, half-formed images chased each other in her mind.  Images of Dorian--alive?  Injured?  Unconscious?  Darker, grimmer possibilities also lurked at the edges of her mind.  She tried to shove them aside, bending all of her focus toward the sending crystal.

The three voices were strangely muffled and distant now.  And there was something else--a rhythmic thumping, as though someone had left the crystal on the surface of a drumhead.  The sounds came in pairs--one loud beat, one soft, then a pause before it started again.

_Dorian’s heartbeat._

Suddenly she could picture the scene.  Dorian face-down on the ground--unresponsive but alive, with the sending crystal pinned under his chest.  The man and two women loomed over him, still talking in low voices.  Dorian’s own body muffled everything but his heart.

But she didn’t have enough to fill in their surroundings.  A room?  A cave?  It sounded like the floor was some sort of wood; she could hear dull echoes of the man’s heavier tread as he paced around Dorian’s prone form.

Clariel strained her ears as hard as she could, still not daring to move.  Whomever these three were, they hadn’t noticed the sending crystal yet.  The man kept pacing; now and then, she heard him barking orders in Tevene.  His voice made her think of a great, pale, poisonous lizard.  She also recognized the crack and hum of magic.  Some sort of binding spell?  They weren’t trying to kill Dorian; his heartbeat continued against the surface of the crystal, loud and strong, each beat a flicker of hope.

Then the hum subsided, and the man began to speak again.  Clariel bit back a frustrated curse at herself.  Why hadn’t she made a better effort to learn Tevene?  Why had elvhen seemed so much more important to her?  She could only recognize a handful of words: ward, Minrathous, _incaensor_.

Then the three raised their voices in unison.  She hadn’t heard this particular oath in two years, but she knew it all too well.  It hadn’t lost any of its chilling power, though its object was long dead.  It was a call-to-arms for Tevinter of old.  A would-be god’s bloody promise of restoration and revenge.  

The battle-oath of the Venatori--or what remained of them.  The Inquisition might have purged them mercilessly from the south over the past two years, but there was no guarantee that Tevinter had shown the same severity.  

For a few seconds, her stunned brain could only process two thoughts.

_Dorian._

_Venatori._

The chanting stopped.  Heavy chains clinked.  One of them was dragging a set of manacles along the ground toward Dorian.  A woman said something, all three laughed, and Dorian’s body thumped against the floor again as they turned him back over.

Clariel couldn’t help the horrified gasp that escaped her.  She pictured them in the sudden silence--three Venatori, staring down at the glowing sending crystal suddenly visible around Dorian’s neck.

She heard the pendant’s chain snap, and the man’s voice came through loud and clear.  A nervous query, followed by silence.  A babble of tense whispers broke out again, all of them equally close.  The broken chain clinked as the crystal passed from person to person.

Maybe there was a bit of hope.  They didn’t seem to know what it was.  Maybe greed would compel them to keep it.  Maybe one of them would even try to use it.

But the moment she thought that, one of the women raised her voice.  She spoke in clipped, forceful tones, and when no one else argued, Clariel heard an awful crack of lightning--followed by an earsplitting shatter cut viciously short.

The sending crystal went dark in her hand.

“No,” she whispered, as if Dorian could still hear her.  She shook the little pendant, which remained resolutely dark and silent.  “Dorian.   _Dorian!_ ”

Panic hit in earnest.  The breaths she’d been holding all came back in a frenzied gulp for air.  She stumbled blindly out of the tent; outside, cold grey pre-dawn light stretched over the Minanter river’s southern bank.  She staggered against the dead tree where she’d tied Prongs’ harness; the huge red hart was already awake, nostrils flared wide when he heard her distress.

“It’s ok,” she gasped, patting him on the nose.  “I’m all right.”

The lie was second nature now, even to her steed.

Trembling from head to toe, she slumped against the hart’s warm body, trying to calm her pounding heart and _think_.  Most of her friends were in Orlais or Ferelden, too far to help.  Dagna might still be visiting Kirkwall, but then what?  Were the two of them supposed to rescue Dorian from the Venatori?  An arcanist and a cripple?

Rescue, she kept telling herself as she ran through the list of people in her head.  They were going to rescue him.  They had to.

But she needed someone who could fight.  One of her old companions, skilled in dealing with dangerous mages--

Clariel bolted upright as her panicked, sleep-addled mind finally put the pieces together.

The Iron Bull and his Chargers.  The last she’d heard, they were in Tantervale, less than a day’s ride away.

But more importantly, _Bull also had a sending crystal._

Slowly, she pulled the magical pendant over her neck, resting the dark purple stone in her lap.  She had never tried contacting Bull with her own crystal.  She didn’t even know if it would work, but it was her only shot.  First, she had to re-attune her crystal, something she’d only seen Dorian demonstrate once.

She fumbled around in the tent until her fingers caught the straps of a flat metal case.  She dragged it out of the tent and opened the latches, revealing an assortment of strange devices resting on dark velvet: a leather shoulder harness, a miniature crossbow, veridium hooks, artificer’s tools, and a gleaming silverite hand.  Tiny runes winked up at her in the half-gloom.

“Prongs,” she said quietly, patting the hart with her good hand.  “Keep an eye out?”  She untied him from the tree, and he immediately started for the little hill that hid her tent from the road.

The shoulder harness went on first, a leather and metal skeleton that extended from her shoulder over the end of her stump.  The runes flared, warming the stiff leather wherever it touched bare skin.

She lifted one of the prosthetic attachments from the case: a pair of short veridium hooks that could open, close, and lock into place.  But her hand trembled violently when she tried to attach them to the end of her shoulder harness.

All she could see and hear was Dorian, somewhere in Tevinter.  Taken by Venatori who had no god left to fight for.  Dorian was a valuable prisoner, but would they even bother ransoming him?  

She blinked and looked down to see her good hand clutching her left arm like a vice.  Slowly, she loosened her fingers and closed her eyes.  Conjured up her room at Halamshiral, just after the Exalted Council, and the Iron Bull sitting with her by the fireplace.

_Deep breaths.  Count to ten, up and down.  Do it again in elvhen, then in Tevene.  Do it until you’re too damn bored to be scared._

She could even do it in Qunlat, thanks to him.  It was his Ben-Hassrath technique, after all.

She’d reached a total of sixty in elvhen when the sending crystal began humming in her lap.  Then a voice came through--distorted and tinny at first, but unmistakable.

“Dalish, get over here.  Ugh, I hate magical crap.  Is this thing even working?”

Clariel’s eyes flew open.  A door slammed, as close as if she’d been standing behind it, drowning out the background babble of indistinct voices.

She said nothing until she heard Bull again, loud and clear.

“Lavellan?  You there?”

“Bull,” she breathed.  “Thank goodness!  How did you--”

“Stupid thing,” he continued loudly, as though she hadn’t said anything at all.  Wood groaned, followed by a heavy thunk--a tankard?  “Normal people get by on ravens, but no, you’re all about weird fancy shit.”

Clariel knew that voice.  The too-casual tone that always preceded danger.  For Bull, paranoia wasn’t a state of mind.  It was a habit, drilled into him since he joined the Ben-Hassrath.

“We’re ok,” she said.  She tried to sound reassuring, but her own voice shook.  “I don’t think anyone is listening in on us.”

He didn’t respond.  She imagined the suspicious frown on Bull’s face, the subtle lean to one side, ready for confrontation or escape.

She had to take several breaths before she could continue.  “I heard...whomever took Dorian, I heard them smash his sending crystal.  They sounded confused.  I don’t know if they recognized it for what it was, or...”

Her voice broke.  It sounded so much worse when she said it aloud.  Before, a tiny part of her could pretend it was just a dream.  A half-imagined horror that she’d dragged back from the Fade.  But in the growing light of dawn, it crystallized into harsh reality.

The sending crystal was gone.  Their precious link, shattered into hundreds of pieces.  And she didn’t know how much time Dorian had before he shared its fate.

She heard the click of a lock on Bull’s end.  

“Can you meet us in Tantervale?” he asked.  He took care to enunciate each word, slow and precise.  “Broken Reed tavern, on the east side of town.  Stables are behind the tavern, through the courtyard out back.”

“Yes.  OK.”  The chaotic fear started to recede, as it always did in the face of a plan.  Such as it was.  She even managed a small smile, though he couldn't see it.  “Don’t let the Chargers drink the place dry.”

Bull was a better liar than she.  “No guarantees,” he said with an easy chuckle.

* * *

The Broken Reed, as it turned out, was a handsome golden-brick building festooned with carpets of ivy.  Definitely more upscale than the Chargers’ preferred establishments.  Clariel could feel dozens of curious stares as she urged Prongs through the muddy streets; normally, she’d leave the hart outside the walls.  He was too distinctive.  Maryden’s songs about the Herald astride her noble steed before the gates of Adamant had spread far and wide. 

But today, she didn’t have time to worry about such things.  It had already been hours since Dorian woke her; every time she thought about what might be happening to him, cold fear gripped her heart.  He was still alive, though the seconds slipped away from them at an alarming rate.  He had to be alive.  She repeated it over and over again, yet another litany.

She didn’t know what she would do if she was wrong.

She left Prongs at the stables, shoved a generous tip at the nearest stablehand, and practically dashed across the courtyard for the Broken Reed.  

She’d barely set foot inside when a huge hand landed on her shoulder and yanked her sideways into a booth.  She was halfway to her knife when she looked up into Iron Bull and Krem’s smiling faces.  Bull took up most of the booth by himself.  He stretched out his legs and shoved a plate of food at her.

Krem sat opposite her, deep in a mug of ale to all casual observers.  But Clariel knew it was water, and the lieutenant kept glancing over the rim, on the lookout for any unwelcome eavesdroppers.

“So,” said Bull, grinning.  “Interesting night?”

Two years a Tal-Vashoth, yet she could still appreciate how long he’d spent as Hissrad, the weaver of illusions.  He looked casual, relaxed, even with one hand within striking distance of the hidden dagger in his belt.  

Clariel pushed the pieces of bread and cheese around.  “Did Dorian wake you up too?”

“I figured it was him.  Stupid thing started blinking, then went dead.  Dalish gave it a few good hits, and I got through to you instead.”

The lunch crowd was trickling out of the tavern--mostly merchants and artisans, by the look of them.  Clariel glanced around; none of them seemed to take notice of the hooded elf who’d just entered.  So she launched into her story, keeping her voice to a low murmur.

Bull listened quietly throughout her explanation of what had happened.  The moment she finished, he turned to Krem.   There was no pretense of ease from him now; every word rang with deadly purpose.

“Krem, get the others and meet us by the stables.  We’re going to Tevinter.”

Krem’s face tightened, but he said nothing as he left the booth.  Bull watched him go, brow furrowed.  “He hasn’t been back since...yeah,” he said once Krem was out of earshot.

Clariel blinked up at the huge mercenary.  “Just like that?  No more questions?”

Bull was already on his feet.  “We can walk and talk.”  He tossed down a few sovereigns to pay for the meal, and opened the back door.

“But--we don’t even know where Dorian is!”  She followed him outside, jogging to keep up with his massive strides.

“Actually, you already know where he is.  You just need me to show you.”  Bull’s grin was strained, but somehow still infuriating.  “When did you last talk?”

Clariel pressed her palms to her temples, trying to remember every scrap of their last conversation.

“Two nights ago.  He was leaving Maevaris Tilani’s summer estate.”

“Where?”

“Perivantium.  He’d been on the road for a few days.”  Dorian had mentioned an argument with another magister, but that was downright normal now.  She felt an insane surge of annoyance toward her best friend; why had he spent twenty minutes complaining about his boots being ruined?  Why hadn’t he mentioned anything useful, like a road or a landmark or--

Her head snapped up.

“A river,” she said.  “Last night, I heard him say something about a river before his kidnappers picked up the crystal.  And he was traveling through this thick black mud filled with leeches.”  Despite everything, she felt herself smile.  “He wouldn’t stop bitching about it.”

Bull’s smile eased.  “Now you’re getting it.”

They’d reached the stables, where the stablehands were giving Bull’s Qunari-bred charger a wide berth.  Bull opened the stable door, reached into his saddlebags, and pulled out what looked like a scrap of spare leather.  But when he unrolled it, she recognized a small map of northern Thedas.  Squiggly arrows in red thread pointed into Tevinter from the surrounding lands.

“Ben-Hassrath map,” he said shortly.  “It’s hard to infiltrate the Vints from the north, so we sent agents through the Marches.”

“And you kept this for...?”

He raised an eyebrow at her.  “The Qun taught us not to waste.  It wasn’t wrong about everything.”  He waited for her to say something, but when she kept quiet, he went back to the map.  “You said Perivantium?”

Clariel nodded.  The little map didn’t stretch as far north as Minrathous, but covered all of southern Tevinter, parts of the Marches, and northern Orlais.  Bull searched for a few seconds, tongue between his teeth, then pointed a huge finger at a dot on the eastern terminus of the Imperial Highway.  He followed the squiggly line until it crossed one narrow river fork, a short distance west of the city.

“That’s it,” he said with an air of grim satisfaction.

She looked from him to the map.  “How can you be sure?”

“It’s the only river anywhere near Perivantium.  They flood this time of year with the rains.  Water overflows the banks, and the leeches come out of the mud.”

He spoke with the certainty of practice--years of it.  She peered up at Bull, trying to imagine him infiltrating the Imperium.  Then she remembered the Exalted Council.  The elven servants in the palace...in the Inquisition.  The explosives smuggled in by her own people.

She swallowed against the painful lump rising in her throat.  “Did you ever go to Tevinter?”

He sighed, looking years older than she’d ever seen him.  “I stick out, so it was never for long.  But you don’t know an enemy until you fight on _their_ turf.”

He didn’t elaborate beyond that, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear more.  These days, thinking about the Qunari never failed to make her sick inside.  She left Bull and went a few doors down to get her belongings.  Prongs lifted his nose from the water trough and snuffled, spraying her with droplets.

She gave him an affectionate pat.  “I’m sorry for pushing you.  I’ll make sure you get plenty of rest tonight.”  Prongs’ reins glittered in the weak afternoon sunshine as she led him out of the stable; each sported several small silverite rings, and a larger ring stuck out from her saddle's pommel.

“ _Atisha_ ,” she said.  Prongs stamped his front hooves, then stood perfectly still.  Clariel slid the metal hooks through two sets of rings--one on the reins, the other on the pommel.  A roll of her left shoulder locked the hooks into place, and she swung herself up into the saddle.

“Very impressive.”  She turned the hart around and saw Bull grinning at her and Prongs.

“Sera’s idea, actually.  She said it would look ‘bloody daft’ if I couldn’t even get in a saddle by myself.”  She unhooked herself from the pommel and clicked her tongue at Prongs, who started to follow Bull down the line of stables.

“I ran into Sera a few weeks ago.  She says you can fight now.”

“I can fire a tiny crossbow, and wave around an electrified gauntlet.  That’s not fighting.”  The words came out sharper than she intended.

Bull shot her an unfathomable look, followed by his easy grin.  “Still better than most.  We’ll deal with that later.”

She knew it wasn’t entirely the truth.  Whatever he might say, Bull’s mind was working on the vicious puzzle she’d presented him.  He needed to track down Dorian, rescue him from an indeterminate number of Venatori...while stuck with the savior of Thedas who could barely defend herself.

“Bull?” she said hesitantly.  “Thanks.  For...you know...having me along.”

A fierce smile slowly spread across his scarred face.

“Dorian is your friend, and my _kadan_.”  He hefted his greataxe, running a calloused thumb across the edge.  “I’ve missed hunting Venatori.  This...will be _fun_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone at the Solas thread, and my favorite shameless enablers. Drosophila in particular, for graciously beta-ing for me :) As always, constructive criticism is appreciated!


	2. Krem

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has a lot of characters in it. As a refresher, here's a list of the Bull's Chargers from the DA wiki:
> 
> Iron Bull, founder and leader of the Bull's Chargers  
> Krem, Iron Bull's Tevinter-born lieutenant  
> Skinner, a bellicose city elf  
> Rocky, a dwarf sapper  
> Stitches, company healer and surgeon  
> Grim, a reserved man who speaks only in grunts  
> Dalish, an elf mage who insists she's a "backup archer" and not indeed a mage

The rains in Tevinter usually meant an end to major travel.  Roads turned into washes, and caravans stuck in the ditches.  Of course, that didn’t stop Bull from marching the Chargers into Tevinter during the peak of the rainy season.  The Silent Plains hadn’t been so bad: quiet, desolate, but relatively dry.  And they had risked taking the well-maintained Imperial Highway for the sake of speed.  But after they crossed the river fork west of Perivantium, the Chargers found themselves off the highway, at the edge of a muddy forest dripping with rain.

Dalish was trying to light a fire.  She kept prodding the sputtering logs with the end of her “bow,” coaxing the damp out of them bit by bit. “We’re waiting _here_?” she asked Krem incredulously.  “It’s wet.”

“Everywhere’s wet.”  Krem gestured at the thick trees to the north.  “Chief thinks the Venatori might be camped in there, so they can’t be spotted from the road.”

Dalish shot a worried look at the sky; the sun was already starting to sink below the forest canopy.  Privately, Krem couldn’t help but share her concern.  Skinner and Grim were the best scouts he’d ever met, but even they couldn’t cover much ground in conditions like these.  Even if the Venatori _were_ in the forest, getting to them would be a hell of an operation.

Out loud, he said, “Keep working on that fire.  I’ll pick the Chief’s brains on the situation.”

Iron Bull stood apart from the rest of them, poring over the scrap of leather that served as a map.  As he approached, Krem couldn’t help but remember his father’s old map of the Imperium.  A battered thing with curling edges and fading ink, kept behind dusty glass like some precious family heirloom.  It hung in Father’s shop, over the long workbench littered with scissors, thread, and scraps of cloth.

He’d spent hours sitting there, watching the lamplight flicker over distant roads and rivers.  Following all the lines and dots when his mind wandered from his chores.  Their current location would have been at the bottom of the map, just a few inches above father’s lamp.

The Chief’s heavy hand landed on his shoulder, bringing him back to the present.  Bull didn’t say anything, and neither did Krem.  But after a few seconds, the tight, choked feeling in his chest began to ease.  

“I told Skinner and Grim to take a quick look before dark,” said Bull before Krem could even ask a question.  “If they can’t find the Venatori, we’ll move south of the Imperial Highway and set up camp somewhere more sheltered.”

“I hate it when you do that,” grumbled Krem.  “That...qunari mind-reading thing.”

“I know.  It’s why I do it.”  Bull grinned and shook his huge horns, spraying Krem with even more water.  “No wonder the Vints took over Thedas.  This place is shit.”

Krem laughed in spite of himself, shaking dripping hair out of his eyes.  “Beats a swampy island.  Second invasion’s the charm, right?”

As he went to rejoin the others, he couldn’t help but notice Rocky and Lavellan rifling through an explosives bag, heads bowed in conspiratorial whispers.  “Don’t let him talk you into anything stupid,” said Krem.  “Last time, I nearly lost my damn eyebrows.”

“They’re only eyebrows,” said Rocky, raising half of one.

Lavellan laughed, and Krem did his best not to stare.  Seeing the Herald of Andraste like this was nothing short of surreal.  At Skyhold, even when she came down to the tavern, the Inquisition had imbued her with a certain distance, an inviolate quality.  But now her riding boots were covered in the same muck as his, her cloak dewed with the same light rain.

She held out her hand, revealing ten little crossbow bolts with red fletching and heads.  Innocuous to anyone who hadn’t spent five minutes with Rocky.

Krem frowned.  “Rocky, Chief said no.”

The dwarf grinned innocently.  “It’s a gift?”  When Krem didn’t deign to answer, Rocky added, “Come on, she saved the damn world.  The big guy can’t order _her_ around.”

“We made a deal,” said Lavellan.  “If I blow my arm off with these, Rocky owes me a new one.”

She held a miniature crossbow, clearly meant to attach to the stump of her left arm.  Krem sighed, shook his head, and left them to it.  He knew the manic, feverish gleam in Rocky’s eyes all too well, and tried to tune out their conversation.  If they lost more than just eyebrows, at least he could claim ignorance.

When Dalish finally got the campfire going, they all huddled next to it, grateful for the warmth.  Dalish and Stitches were already tearing through bread and jerky.  Krem grabbed rations from the open bag and knelt next to Bull, who had his sending crystal in his palm.

“Handy things,” said Bull.  “Lavellan lent hers to Skinner.  I’ve got mine so we can talk while they’re out there.”

Rocky’s eyes gleamed in the firelight, fixated on the purple gem.  “Where do we get more of these?”

Bull rolled his eyes.  “Dorian _laughed_ at me when I asked.”  He affected a Tevinter noble accent--badly.  “ _‘Amatus, one sending crystal is worth more than you make in a lifetime.’_ ”  Then he chuckled, which meant it was ok for everyone else to laugh too.  

While the rest of them ate and chatted, Bull’s good eye kept straying to the dark and silent sending crystal.  Krem scooted closer, trusting Dalish and Rocky’s belching contest to drown out his whisper.  “Dorian’s tough.”  He returned the gesture from before, giving Bull’s shoulder a squeeze.  “He’ll make it.”

The ghost of a smile flickered across Bull’s face.  “You going soft on me, Krem?”

“Someone has to be your nursemaid.”

“Hah!  Qunari nursemaids are like nothing you’ve ever seen.  They’ve got these padded sticks that--”

Qunari nurses and their padded sticks would have to wait; the sending crystal suddenly flickered to life, and Bull held up his huge fist for silence.  Rocky even stopped mid-belch; Krem had never seen the dwarf look so uncomfortable.  Krem stifled the urge to laugh, and six heads leaned toward the little pendant.

“Chief?” came Skinner’s tense whisper.

Bull lifted the crystal to his mouth.  “Yeah.  We’re all here.”

Grim grunted somewhere in the background, followed by a soft rustle.  “Shut it,” said Skinner impatiently.  “We found them.”

“How many Venatori?” asked Bull.

Krem could almost picture Skinner’s irritable head shake, flicking damp hair out of her eyes.  “Just three mages.  Shem bastards also brought slavers, and a lot of guards.”

A long, nasty silence followed her words.  Krem stared down at his hands; the sick feeling in his stomach was an old, familiar specter.  He impatiently shoved it aside and asked, “Did you see any slaves or captives?”

There was a brief pause before Skinner answered.  “Six, seven wagons.  Big metal boxes with people inside.”  They heard Grim grunt again.  “Grim thinks one of the slaves escaped.  They sent out dogs.”

Krem suppressed a shudder.  He’d seen them, the day the Imperial slavers came to take his father away.  Lean, swift hounds with bright eyes and long snouts, handled by cold-eyed men.  Dogs trained to chase, trap, but not harm or kill.  Slavers couldn’t afford to damage or lose property.

He caught the Chief’s eye, and motioned for him to hurry up.  Even if they weren’t the intended prey, the slavers’ hounds would smell something amiss the moment the wind turned.  Sooner, if this drizzle kept up.

Bull nodded.  “Skinner, Grim, double-time it back.  They’re going to find us sooner or later, so don’t worry about covering your tracks.”  And the sending crystal’s light winked out.

He turned to the rest of them waiting around the campfire.  “Chargers, we’re improvising.  Be ready to move when the scouts get back.”

Amidst the general scramble for armor and weapons and lanterns, Krem saw Rocky smile--no, bare his crooked teeth.  “I love it when he says that,” Rocky said to Stitches, who looked anything but enthusiastic.  Without a word, Stitches reached into his pack and shoved two burn poultices into Rocky’s waiting hands.

“Cheers,” said Rocky.

Stitches sighed.  “One of them’s for Her Worship,” he said, nodding toward Lavellan.  “Please don’t blow her up.”

Rocky rolled his eyes.  “Don’t be such a worrywart.  She’s the _responsible_ one.”

Krem looked up from refilling his lantern just in time to see Lavellan stifle a snort of laughter.  She saw him watching, smiled, and tossed something to him over the campfire.  Krem reached out and caught a little vial of thick purple liquid, stoppered with dense black wax.

“Magebane,” she explained.  She started making her way around the campfire, handing each of them a vial of the stuff.  “Ser Barris taught me how to distill it after Therinfal.”

Stitches squinted at his vial.  “Is this dangerous to normal people?”

“I wouldn’t _drink_ it,” said Lavellan.  “But it’s meant to drain mana, not kill.”

Rocky frowned at her.  “Wait, wait.  We’re _not_ killing Vints?  That’s news to me.”

Bull sat down next to Rocky and extended his huge palm for the poison.  He already had his armor on, with a monstrous double-headed axe strapped to his back.  “If we can, I want to get one of those Venatori alive.  Dorian’s not an idiot.  I want to know how they tracked and ambushed him.”

Krem felt his heart sink.  “Chief, we barely got any Venatori prisoners during the war.  Crazy bastards would rather light themselves on fire than talk.”  He glanced at Rocky, who looked uncharacteristically ashen.  Neither of them had ever gotten used to the screaming.  Or the smell...or the resultant mess.

Bull ran his thumb along the edge of his axe.  “I said _if,_ Krem.  If it doesn’t happen, carve them to pieces.”

The cold gleam in the Chief’s eye wasn’t exactly comforting, and Krem left the fireside to retrieve his armor from his saddlebags.  The old, familiar routine hadn’t changed at all since he first joined the army: the smell of oil and steel, the comforting weight of heavy metal shoulders.

He was just pulling on his gauntlets when a note fluttered out of his open saddlebag.  Without thinking, he caught it just before it touched the mud.

_For all the battles you’ve yet to win, and all the songs I’ll sing of you.  Come home safe._

_Maryden_

He smiled when he saw the lipstick mark on the other side.  If he closed his eyes, he could imagine her perfume--sweet, with a hint of lingering smoke from the tavern.  Her hands, bringing the strings to life.  Her words stinging anyone stupid enough to heckle her.  

And he pictured the lute he’d seen in Kirkwall, at one of the Tethras family businesses: a beautiful Antivan import of exotic purple wood, with mother-of-pearl adorning its slender neck.  He didn’t want to ask Varric how much it would cost, not until he had a little more saved up for it.  

Bull’s heavy footsteps came up behind him, jolting Krem from his pleasant daydream.  “Sorry we couldn’t stay in Tantervale,” said Bull.  “I know you two wanted to meet up.”

Krem slipped Maryden’s kiss into his pocket for luck.  “She understands.  Traipsing through the mud killing people isn’t her idea of a good time.”

“Her loss,” chuckled Bull.

The sun was almost gone behind the trees when a false bird whistle heralded Skinner and Grim’s return.  They emerged into the firelight, both breathing hard, Grim clutching a stitch in his side.  Krem pushed a waterskin into Grim’s hands.

“We hurried,” said Skinner.  She snatched the water from Grim, took a messy slurp, and handed it back.  

“Good,” said Bull.  “Are they still hunting that slave?”

Grim nodded, pointing toward the northwest.

“Poor bastard,” said Krem.  “He must have run for the river.” He knew how this story always ended.

Bull shook his head.  “We can use the distraction.  Grim, I need to know what we’re assaulting.”

Grim grabbed a stick and began drawing the Venatori camp in the mud, with the rest of them watching in silence.  Slowly, the lines and squiggles became a circle of wagons, surrounding one in the middle.  No fortifications, but lots of guards if Grim’s stick figure count was accurate.  Grim carefully traced a few strange triangular patterns on the central wagon and one other, then stepped back to admire his work.

Rocky asked the obvious question.  “What are those?”  He pointed to the triangles.

Skinner shrugged, looking to Dalish.  “They glowed.”

“Probably warding glyphs,” said Dalish thoughtfully.  “They neutralize spells, but each ward has a limit.  So if I were a mage, which I’m _not_ , I’d cast several to be sure.”

“Why would anyone bother warding a bunch of slaves?” asked Stitches.

“ _Incaensor_ ,” whispered Krem.

They all looked at him, but the explanation stuck in his throat.  Each time one of those heavily guarded wagons had rattled through the streets, his mother would usher him inside, close up the tailor shop, and lock the doors.  But he’d never seen anyone escape from one; all four sides of the wagon sported several large glowing glyphs, and there were no windows.  Only a few air holes, drilled into the reinforced back door.

He took a deep breath, and tried again.  “ _In_ _caensor_ is Tevinter slang for something that’s dangerous, but useful.  Like raw lyrium, or a slave with magic, or--”

“A powerful hostage,” Lavellan finished for him.  “I heard the Venatori say that when they captured Dorian.   _Incaensor_.”

Bull let out a long, low whistle.  “OK,” he said, starting to pace back and forth in front of Grim’s map.  “Grim, Skinner, you’ll come up the center with me.  We’re going to hit them at the front of that wagon circle, and cause as much trouble as we can.  Dalish, you’ll flank.  Dispel those wards and find Dorian.  Stitches and Krem, watch her back.”

He paused and counted the number of guards arrayed against them.  “Lavellan and Rocky, I need a distraction.  Draw as many away as possible before we hit them.”

Rocky rubbed his hands together.  “I have an idea, but you won’t like it.”

Grim actually chuckled, though it still came out like a grunt.  “He’s right,” said Dalish, also laughing.  “Bull doesn’t like _any_ of your ideas.”

“If it makes you feel better, it was her idea too,” said Rocky, jerking his thumb at Lavellan.  He rummaged in his ash-stained bag and produced a large bottle of coarse, rust-red powder.

Bull narrowed his good eye.  “Rocky...”

“I know, I know, it’s not the qunari stuff.  But my new powder burns like hell.  Blinding, spitting, huge column of sparks.”  The dwarf’s crooked teeth flashed in the firelight as he spoke.  “We set a trail of charges and draw them off to the west.”

Skinner’s lip curled.  “If I die in a forest fire, I’ll kill you.”

Rocky waved the threat away like a swarm of obnoxious flies.  “It’s not fire--it won’t catch or spread.  Unless you’re dumb enough to step on it.”

“And what about you?” asked Krem, looking pointedly at Rocky’s half-grown eyebrow.

Lavellan held up one of Rocky’s red-tipped incendiary bolts.  “Rocky’s powder needs intense heat to ignite.  We’ll shoot the charges at range to set them off.”

Krem groaned, but didn’t otherwise protest.  At least _he_ wasn’t the one trying Rocky’s new toys this time.

“You’ll have to deal with the dogs hunting that slave,” said Bull.  “They went west too.”

Lavellan patted the bandolier of grenades strapped over her armor.  “My clan used these to discourage any creatures tailing our aravels.”  She had equipped what looked like smoke grenades, though the swirling contents were red instead of grey.

Dalish leaned in for a closer look and laughed.  “Pepper smoke!  I broke some of those on accident once; Hahren Taeros never let me near the halla again.”

“Have a little faith, Chief,” said Rocky.  “When have I ever let you down?”

It was a fair question.  Rocky had nearly killed himself several times over, dealing with fortifications that had the rest of the Chargers pinned.  Bull sighed and grumbled something under his breath about being touched in the head, which Rocky took to mean “go.”

“Cheers, Chief,” he said, raising the bottle of powder in a mock toast.

“Don’t thank me,” said Bull grimly.  “We’re not getting paid, and this won’t be easy.  In fact, it will be a crapshoot.  Night-time fighting, outnumbered, with a lot of civilians around.”

“The spiders were worse,” said Dalish with a visible shudder.

“The point is, I know I’m asking a lot.”  Bull looked around the circle of faces, pausing on each one.  “Drinks are on me when we get out of here.”

Skinner already had a thin layer of magebane on her favorite throwing knives.  “Always happy to kill shems.”

“I missed the Venatori,” said Rocky wistfully.  “Got my best boots off one of them.”

Krem looked up at the darkening sky.  He’d be lying if he said he wanted to be in Tevinter of all places, fighting in the middle of a muddy forest.  But at least he was coming back in good company, after fleeing alone all those years ago.  He smiled at Bull and thumped his chestplate.  “Horns pointing up, Chief.”

Seven voices answered in unison.

“Horns pointing up!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anything's unclear or you have any constructive criticism, please let me know; it's been a while since I tackled writing with so many characters. Huge thanks to [ drosophila ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fullmetal_drosophila) for being a wonderful editor and helping me sort through all of this.


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